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Rhyme nodded. "I can't disagree, Sachs. I've never questioned an investigation before, in all these years. They haven't been gray. This one's real gray.
"There's one thing, though, to keep in mind, Sachs. About us."
"We're volunteers."
"Yep. We can walk away if we want. Let Myers and Laurel find somebody else."
She was silent and she was motionless, at least according to those places where Rhyme could sense motion.
He continued, "You weren't happy with the case in the first place."
"No, I wasn't. And part of me does want to bail, yeah. There's too much we don't know about the players and what they have in mind, what their motives are."
"My motive queen."
"And when I say players, I mean Nance Laurel and Bill Myers, as much as Metzger and Bruns--or whatever the hell his name is." After a moment: "I have a bad feeling about this one, Rhyme. I know, you don't believe in that. But you were crime scene most of your career. I was street. There are hunches."
This sat between them for a minute or two as they both watched the male falcon rise and lift his wings in a minor flourish. They're not large animals but, seen from so close, the preening was regally impressive, as was the bird's momentary but intense gaze into the room. Their eyesight is astonishing; they can spot prey miles away.
Emblems...
"You want to keep at it, don't you?" she asked.
He said, "I get what you're saying, Sachs. But for me it's a knot that needs unraveling. I can't let it go. You don't need to, though."
There was no delay as she whispered, "No, I'm with you, Rhyme. You and me. It's you and me."
"Good, now I was--"
And his words stopped abruptly because Sachs's mouth covered his and she was kissing him hungrily, almost desperately, flinging blankets back. She rolled on top of him, gripping his head. He felt her fingers on the back of his head, his ears, his cheek, fingers firm one moment, soft the next. Strong again. Stroking his neck, stroking his temple. Rhyme's lips moved from hers to her hair and then a spot behind her ear, then down to her chin and seated on her mouth again. Lingering.
Rhyme had used his newly working arm on the controls of a Bausch + Lomb comparison microscope, with phones, with the computer and with a density gradient device. He had not used it yet for this: drawing Sachs closer, closer, gripping the top of her silk pajama top and smoothly drawing it over her head.
He supposed he could have finessed the buttons, if he'd tried, but urgency dictated otherwise.
TUESDAY, MAY 16
III
CHAMELEONS
CHAPTER 24
RHYME WHEELED FROM THE front sitting room of his town house into the marble entryway near the front door.
Dr. Vic Barrington, Rhyme's spinal cord injury specialist, followed him out, and Thom closed the doors to the room and joined them. The idea of physicians' making house calls was from another era, if not a different dimension, but when the essence of the injury makes it far easier to come to the mountain, that's what many of the better doctors did.
But Barrington was untraditional in many ways. His black bag was a Nike backpack and he'd bicycled here from the hospital.
"Appreciate your coming in this early," Rhyme said to the doctor.
The time was six thirty in the morning.
Rhyme liked the man and had decided to give him a pass and resist asking how the "emergency" or the "something" had gone yesterday when he'd had to postpone their appointment. With any other doc he would have grilled.
Barrington had just completed a final set of tests in anticipation of the surgery scheduled for May 26.
"I'll get the blood work in and look over the results but I don't have any indication that anything's changed over the past week. Blood pressure is very good."
